“I don’t wanna sing anymore, I don’t wanna tour, I don’t wanna get on anotha’ stage again for the rest a my life. I’m through.”

“Aw, c’mon Lorraine, you don’t mean that.”

“The whole dream ’s broke down.” The words barely made it out before her voice clammed up entirely. Her face went flush in an unbearable heat under the cake of yesterday’s makeup. It was too much, and too cruel. Lorraine ran the edge of her hand under her eye to catch the damp.

“Hey, hey now,” Blanche cooed, setting hands upon her shoulders, “It’s not that bad. Look, you’re just tired and this tour ‘s been shit anyway. But you love singin’, you don’t really wanna quit that do ya?”

Lorraine looked away into the distance, willing dryer eyes.

“I tell ya what, soon as we get to Kansas City, you an’ me ditch this gig and go see my buddy at the Savoy – give it one last shot someplace decent, ok?”

Lorraine’s breath went heavy in her chest. She would’ve allowed herself to fall if Blanche’s hands weren’t still clinging to her shoulders. It was so much. The ashes of her career felt insurmountable. It would be easier to forget it entirely, pretend it never happened – to shut down that part of herself and replace it with something stable and numb. But then…she slowly nodded her head.

“Good,” Blanche said with more relief than joy, “Now why don’t we go sit down again, huh? Take it easy this mornin’.”

Lorraine sucked in her tears and wandered back toward the gaping door of the bus. Once more. On the distant edge of the road, she saw a pair of figures – Al the driver was returning with a mechanic.

So, this weekend I have the opportunity to get involved in an artistic project that doesn’t involve music.

I get to act! 🙂

Writer C.L. Manion is going to shoot her first short film this weekend, and I get to play one of the characters in this film.

The film is called “Horoscope.” The logline for the film is the following: “On the advice of a horoscope, a man delivers an odd gift to his girlfriend.” Are you intrigued? You should be! 🙂

C.L. Manion is a very talented writer. I was very fortunate to have edited one of her transcripts for a feature length film, and it was excellent! (Once it hits Hollywood, I will be sure to tell you what the name of that film is 😉 )

Again, they lay quiet atop the white noise of the water. Long moments passed.

And then Jacob started singing.

What started as a quiet hum-mumble grew bolder with each phrase. Slowly, Lewis joined in, and soon the two young men were singing – nearly shouting – ‘Dancing Queen’. All verses. All choruses. All the words that, in different circumstances, they would have denied even knowing. They belted out their defiant ABBA sing-along against the darkness.

And just as quickly it was over. And quiet again. They lay all the stiller, looking at the stars.

There’s a piece by Schubert that sounds like water. A piano sonata that breaths and ripples as it floats away from the keys. Nelson had memorized every note.

It was the perfect thing to play, on an afternoon like this. The sun hidden behind soggy clouds, the lunch dishes washed and stacked to dry. Maxine at the far end of the table with her coffee and her paper. They had entered the docile half of a Sunday. And so Nelson played Schubert.

The familiar notes rolled out from under his fingers. Sometimes bold. Sometimes timid, almost… like the breath before crying. Then bold again. Like another lazy afternoon, now years in the distance. A rented boat and her new hat. And a sort of anxiety it would take him years to describe.

A trill and a run that runs out of steam at the top. Like a cartoonman over the cliff. You only fall when you realize you’re off the edge. A persistent build to a descending line. And she was so beautiful. Is. But the moments, then, were so fleeting.

The water melody smoothes out again. Rain started to tap upon panes. And Nelson played on.

Maxine glanced over the edge of her newspaper to see him tum-drumbaling along the edge of the table, head gently bobbing with the recording.

Most movies have music written for them. I’d like to think it can work the other way around too. Every now and again I find a piece of music I’d like to write a movie for.

For example, Mahler’s 5th symphony. Super dramatic, heroic. Thrilling and heart breaking in turns. There are points in the first movement when you can practically hear our hero’s cape fluttering behind him as he charges up the spiral stairs… of a castle… to dispatch or rescue accordingly.

And it would be that kind of film too – a swashbuckler. I’d love to see the marquee: “Mahler’s 5th” Starring Errol Flynn.

Every once in a while, music gets stuck in my head. Like a fly that found its way in the house, but cannot locate the nearby window to escape again. Sometimes it stays there for ages.

Once, I had the prelude to Wagner’s “Tristan and Isolde” stuck in my head for three days straight.

Not that that’s an entirely bad thing. ‘Tristan’ is one of my favorites. But there does seem to be a statute of limitations for pleasantness when it comes to this kind of thing.

By day three, I felt like the be-curlered old lady living in the apartment under a great party. Clad in my mental house-coat and faded flat slippers, I assaulted the ceiling with my theoretical broom, yelling ‘turn it down up there!’